Harry Potter and the Secret of the Scar
by TheGryfter
Summary: With Dumbledore gone, Harry faces an uncertain, and dangerous future. Should he return to Hogwarts, or choose the lonely path that leads to Voldemort? And, worse, can he truly leave the love of his life behind?
1. An Unexpected Plea

_A/N: A short little note at the start, if you'll bear with me…_

_I wrote the first half of this story in a fever after HBP. Then I got a new writing job, and it went away. When DH was released, I was reluctant to go back to it. Mostly, because I knew I'd get accused of outright stealing themes and events from the book. But that's not true. I feel gratified that I was able to carry on the story from HBP in ways that Jo Rowling herself did so magnificently in DH, and everything from chapter 12 onward is written post-DH, and I'm making a conscious effort to stick to the notes I made and not piggyback on a work I can't hope to compete with. _

_This story is my own effort, and I will claim only the inspiration J.K's beautiful world has given myself, and so many others. Harry Potter, and all related characters are hers alone…_

**Harry Potter**

**And the Secret of the Scar**

**Chapter One – An Unexpected Plea**

The door in front of him was locked. Ivy hung from the walls, creeping down the sides and venturing right across the portal so it covered the entire door like a giant green spider web. Weeds jutted from between the broken flagstones leading up to the door, and ugly, twisting thorn bushes flourished across the dappled, unkempt yard.

The moon was obscured behind thick, angry clouds that loomed low over the land and a tangle of fog dripped in across the yard, searching between the twisted, gnarled trees and creating their own dense patches of shadow. The house, in short, was creepy. Like something out of an old horror movie, everything in stark, dull hues that screamed a sense of ominous foreboding.

But the boy felt no fear. Indeed, now that he faced the barred door he felt his heart beat faster as a sense of excitement started slowly pulsing through his veins. His cheeks flushed and a thin mist escaped between his teeth as he exhaled rapidly.

He was here, and the locked door would not be a problem. He curled his fingers tight around the wand in his right hand and pointed it at the lock.

"_Alohomora._"

He barely whispered the spell but immediately he heard a click as the lock slid back. He gripped the heavy iron handle and twisted it, opening the door wide. It creaked, obviously, but he wasn't worrying about making any noise. There was nobody in the house, he was sure of that, and the old manor was far enough away from the village across the valley that he was certain he wouldn't be detected. He pushed through the door and entered a huge, hulking kitchen. It smelled of old ammonia and neglect. A film of grime covered the floor and squelched against his trainers when he stepped on the linoleum. It was dark in the kitchen and again the boy raised his wand and muttered an incantation.

"_Lumos."_

A beam of light flared at the end of his wand and he used it like an old fashioned torch, illuminating the walls until he saw the door leading off the kitchen into the rest of the house. He didn't linger. He crossed through the kitchen and through the other door into a hallway. There was the front door, off to the side, flanked by high, grimy windows and across from it a set of stairs leading to the upper floors. He crossed the stone-flagged entranceway and mounted the stairs, taking his time, climbing steadily. He reached a small landing and immediately turned to his right, facing a long narrow passage. He moved swiftly, hurrying down the passage to a door at the end, which stood slightly ajar.

He pushed through and stepped into a small living room. For a second, just as he crossed the door, he'd expected… _something_. A fire crackling in the grate and… _someone_… sitting in the stuffy armchair facing the fireplace. But there was nobody there. The grate was empty and cold as the chair. He felt a tinge of disappointment.

It would have been so much easier if the person he was expecting had been there, waiting for him. No more searching, no more waiting, no more doubt as to the outcome of the battle they both knew must come. But he shrugged it off. He'd known he wouldn't be here. He would have sensed a presence at least, he was sure.

He took the opportunity to scan the room. There was another chair, this one made of wood and pocked with holes. Termites had taken up residence. His imagination could hear their grubby little jaws ripping through the soft wood. The carpet on the floor was worn and tattered, the curtains on the windows heavy with dust. He turned to the wall opposite the window. It was bare except for a single photograph, framed in tarnished silver. The photo had been taken in this very room. He recognised the fireplace. It was obviously very old. It showed a dapper, handsome man with a shock of full, grey hair and an equally handsome old woman. Both were sitting in comfortable, high-backed wing chairs and looking all austere for the camera. Standing between them, his long, delicate hands curled on the back of the chairs, was a younger man. His features were just as delicate, almost moulded. He had black hair and a winning smile.

The picture was a little depressing, and without knowing why he reached up and lifted it off the hook pegged to the wall. He set it, face-down on the ground and stepped back, now facing the blank wall. In the corner, near the ceiling, a fat spider scurried along its web then stopped, it's eight gleaming eyes watching the intruder intently. He held up the wand again.

"_Nox,_" he muttered, and the light at the end of the wand flickered out.

He stood in the darkness for long moments, listening to the soft rustling of the wind outside. Then:

"_Flagrate!_"

A jet of fire seared from the end of the wand, ripping apart the darkness that had only just settled. He moved deliberately along the wall, drawing the wand up and down until it seemed the entire room might catch alight. But it did not. He extinguished the fire still erupting from the tip of the wand and stepped back, a grim, fierce expression on his face. The heat from the wall forced him to step back, almost all the way across the room and a thin film of sweat coated his face. But he was satisfied. He'd done what he'd intended.

It would draw attention. The fiery red light would be spotted, even all the way across the valley and it would not go out. Not even when the fire brigade came and unleashed their jets of freezing foam. The message would remain. His message to his prey:

"_I'M COMING FOR YOU, TOM!_"

And he laughed. The sound was high-pitched and tinged with a slight hint of madness. He was shocked to hear the laugh coming from his own mouth, but he couldn't stop. He laughed, and laughed, and laughed… until the peculiar scar on his forehead flashed with a white-hot burst of pain, and the laugh turned into a scream.

Many miles away, a young man named Harry Potter was still screaming when he jerked awake so roughly that he got tangled up in his sheets and fell out of bed. He landed with a painful thud on the floor and for a second he just lay there, panting. He reached up tentatively and rubbed the lightning-bolt shaped scar on his forehead. It was throbbing, as though someone had set an electric current running through it.

This wasn't the first time he'd dreamed something so vivid, only to be woken up by his scar flaring with pain. Indeed, three years ago, he'd dreamt about that same house he'd visited in his dream tonight, though, at that time, he hadn't known where it was. But Harry knew now. That was the Riddle House. The once-stately manor that belonged to Lord Voldemort's family. The house where Voldemort had murdered his father and grandparents… the people in the photograph…

The dream had been so clear. He could still feel the heat of the flames as they stretched towards him, threatening to scorch his face…

Harry heard footsteps out in the hallway and hurried to his feet. Had his scream woken his aunt and uncle? If it had, Harry knew he was in for a tongue-lashing. Uncle Vernon would probably curse and blame 'all that infernal noise' on Harry's snowy owl, Hedwig. It wouldn't make any bit of difference for Harry to point out that Hedwig wasn't even here. She'd been gone for two days, delivering a letter. So Harry flung himself back into bed, hurriedly rearranging the covers and, within seconds, he was pretending to be asleep. There was a knock at the door. Quick, soft, almost-shy raps against the wood, as though the person doing the knocking didn't really want to be heard. Harry was startled. His uncle Vernon, and even his aunt Petunia, had never bothered knocking before. They tended to barge straight in on those rare occasions when they decided to stomach the sight of Harry.

Harry had lived with his aunt and uncle, and their overgrown son, Dudley, ever since the death of his own parents some sixteen years previously. Harry was never what one might call a welcome guest in the Dursley home. Shameful intruder, or loathed interloper maybe… but never welcome. At the best of times the Dursleys treated Harry like he didn't exist, and at the worst of times with a cold contempt. Harry was as happy about staying with the Dursleys as they were about having him.

But Harry knew it would all be over soon. He had less than a month to go until his seventeenth birthday when, in his world, he would come of age and be legally allowed to live on his own. Harry's world, was the wizarding world, and it was as far removed from the manicured, picket fence suburbia of Privet Drive (where the Dursleys lived) as it was possible to get. Harry had promised his old headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, that he would stay at Privet Drive until he came of age, and Harry was determined to uphold that promise – no matter how unhappy it made him or his aunt and uncle. But once he turned seventeen, he would leave and never come back.

The knock came again. Against his better judgement, Harry sat up in bed and stared at the door.

"Come in."

The door creaked open and the looming figure of Dudley Dursley appeared in the doorway. Harry often thought that a wizard meeting Dudley for the first time would think that he'd had an engorgement charm placed on him, but this wasn't the case. Dudley's massive bulk came from eating anything, from the full stock of the pantry to plastic wrapping ever since his pudgy little fingers had first been able to grasp an ice-cream tub. His cousin's floppy blonde hair was longer than Harry had ever known it, drooping over his watery blue eyes and though still massive by anybody's standards, he was leaner now – with the kind of bulk more in keeping with a pro wrestler, rather than a sumo wrestler. This, Harry knew, was down to his continued obsession with boxing. Dudley was now the inter-county junior middleweight boxing champion. Harry had seen the trophy his first day back at Privet Drive. The trophy was hard to miss. Uncle Vernon had bought a special display case and stuck it right in the entrance hall so that it was the first thing anyone saw when they came through the front door. So proud were the Dursleys of their son's undoubted talent for inflicting pain on others that Harry was sure they would have displayed the trophy on the front lawn if they weren't terrified that the gilted monstrosity would get stolen.

Dudley shuffled into the room and an alarm went off in the back of Harry's mind. It was the way his cousin moved, it was – wrong. When he was younger, the best Dudley could manage was a waddle. But recently he'd developed the characteristic swagger of the biggest bully in the playground. Now though, his shoulders were drooped and he skirted across the space like he was afraid and he seemed… smaller, somehow.

"What do you want?" demanded Harry, shortly, not bothering to hide the annoyance in his voice.

Whatever his cousin's size, Harry had long since ceased to be afraid of him. Harry could safely say that Dudley was one of the least terrifying obstacles he'd ever faced. At the top of the list came things like a giant three-headed dog, affectionately known as 'Fluffy', a massive fire-breathing dragon hailing from Hungary and, of course, Voldemort. Always Voldemort. Besides, Harry was no longer the puny shrimp Dudley used to practise his uppercut on. He'd grown a fair bit this past year, and also broadened out across the shoulders as he crept ever steadily towards manhood. A fact he hadn't fully appreciated at school, but one that came fully home to him when he returned to Privet Drive to discover that he was as tall as Dudley for the first time in his life. It had been quite a shock. Indeed, Harry couldn't guess who was more shocked, himself or Dudley.

But Dudley didn't look shocked now, he wasn't even looking menacing or mean which would be normal for Dudley. Instead, he looked nervous and apprehensive and he kept wringing his hands together, his eyes flicking into the dark corners of the room as though expecting to find some lurking monster standing in the shadows.

"Well, if you're not going to answer me, at least switch on the light," said Harry. Dudley did so, carefully closing the door first. When he turned back to Harry he seemed more sure of himself, as though the light gave him comfort.

"Need to talk to you," said Dudley.

"Oh great, thanks for filling me in. Never would have guessed that on my own," said Harry.

Harry didn't know why he was being so short with his cousin, except that the sheer oddness of the situation, of Dudley's manner, was unnerving him slightly. Dudley didn't appear to hear his words though. He crossed the room and lifted the chair facing Harry's desk, carrying it across to the bed and sitting down. For a second, Harry had a vision of the chair splintering into kindling the minute Dudley's lowered his excessive weight on it, but it held up fine.

"What do you want," asked Harry.

Now that he was sitting, and apparently on the verge of disclosing whatever it was that had gotten him out of bed, Dudley couldn't seem to speak. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then opened it – giving a rather good impression of a freshly landed fish.

"Dudley," Harry was becoming even more annoyed now. His scar was still hurting and his cousin's muteness was not something he wanted to deal with at two o'clock in the morning.

"I think I can feel them," said Dudley, his voice hardly more than a whisper, so Harry had to strain to hear him.

"You… what?"

"_Them,_" said Dudley, his agitation increasing, "I can feel them! I've felt them all year."

"Felt what, Dudley? I'm a lot of things, but I'm not a mind-reader you know?"

Normally, a sentence like that would have been enough to bring a terrified scowl to Dudley's face. The Dursleys loathed even the barest mention of anything magical or, as they would call it, the abnormal. But Dudley did nothing of the sort. Instead, his face was screwed up in a look of intense concentration, and for Dudley that was an alarming state. The longest he ever concentrated on anything was the time he took to clean his plate.

"Those things," said Dudley, leaning closer to Harry, as though conveying a secret, "The things that – you know – those things that… attacked us! The things that made it so cold."

"The dementors?" said Harry, a beam of understanding finally coming to light in his brain.

Two years ago, Harry and Dudley had been attacked by a pair of dementors while on their way home from the park two streets over. The dementors were the former guards of Azkaban, the wizard prison, and were some of the foulest creatures Harry had ever encountered. They were viscous beings that sucked all the happiness and hope out of any place they inhabited, and had the power to suck the soul out of a person with a single kiss. Harry had thought the dementors were sent by Voldemort, but later he learned that they were set on him by Delores Umbridge, a Ministry employee seeking to prevent Harry's return to Hogwarts. Only Harry's quick thinking had saved him and his cousin that night.

"What do you mean you can feel them?" he asked, now curious to know what Dudley had to say.

"I've felt them all year," Dudley said again, "At school. Everything's cold… there's no… happiness anymore. Everybody feels it, but I… I…" he trailed off, looking down at his socked feet, seemingly unable to finish the sentence.

"You know what's causing it," said Harry, finishing the thought for them, "Because you felt it before. The way they affect you."

Dudley nodded, and he seemed glad that Harry understood what he was getting at. Harry, though, understood far more than that. For a second, he debated whether he should explain anything to Dudley. The Dursleys seemed at their most content when they existed in their own, closed-off, fishbowl little world. But it was Dudley who had come into his, Harry's, room tonight, and Harry felt it was only fair to tell him everything. He didn't hate the Dursleys enough to lie to them.

"You're feeling it because they're out there now," said Harry, "They're everywhere. The Ministry of Magic have lost control of them, and many of them have deserted their posts at Azkaban. That's the…"

"Wizard prison, yeah I know," said Dudley.

For a moment, Harry broke off, startled both by Dudley's recollection of a word he'd probably heard only once, on that night two years before – and by the fact that Dudley had said the word 'wizard'.

"Yeah…" said Harry, composing himself, "Yeah… the wizard prison. They're on the loose now, and according to rumour, they're breeding. They're attacking people left and right and nobody can seem to stop them. Of course Muggles – that is, non-magical people, can't even see dementors. I saw them that night they attacked us but you just felt it go all cold. The same thing's happening now. People are just getting depressed and sad, but they don't know why."

Dudley was nodding feverishly by the time Harry stopped explaining, "Yes, yes," he said, "Two of the kids at school tried to kill themselves. But they couldn't explain why. Everybody's in a mood. I know it's these dementures."

"Dementors," Harry corrected him.

"Whatever," said Dudley, "How do I fight them?"

At first, Harry didn't answer. He was sure he'd heard wrong, but then Dudley repeated himself.

"How do I fight them?'

"You can't Dudley," said Harry, "Only wizards can fight them. The only thing that works on them is a _Patronus_ charm, and there are some wizards who can't even produce a proper Patronus."

"_You_ can," said Dudley, his voice quaking slightly and Harry thought he might have caught a hint of admiration in it, but that was probably his imagination, "You fought them off the last time."

"The last time you said I was the one who attacked you," Harry pointed out.

"But I know you weren't. My mum knew what they were and I'm still feeling them."

"Well, yeah, I can fight them. I've been able to conjure a patronus for years, but that –"

"Teach me," said Dudley, suddenly.

A shocked silence suddenly descended on the room. This time, there was no mistaking Dudley's words, although Harry couldn't believe he'd uttered them. It struck him that this was, at once, one of the longest and certainly the most bizarre conversation he'd ever had with his cousin.

"You want me to teach you the _Patronus_ charm?"

"Yes," said Dudley, "I hate them. I hate what they do to me and to everybody. I can't fight them with my fists – " to demonstrate he held up his melon-sized hands, "So I want you to teach me to fight them."

Harry didn't respond for a long moment. He just studied Dudley's face, growing more and more alarmed by the fierce determination he saw there.

"I can't, Dud," he said, eventually, "It doesn't work like that. You need… you know? Talent. Magical talent. It's something you're born with."

"Don't lie to me!" stormed Dudley, so suddenly that Harry jumped. He was sure that that must have woken Uncle Vernon up, but Dudley wasn't finished, "You just want them to get me, don't you? You hate me. You always hated me, and now you're hoping they'll come and finish me off!"

"If I wanted them to finish you I would've let them have you two years ago, you stupid oaf," retorted Harry, his own temper suddenly snapping, "I'm telling the truth. I can't teach you. I could tell you the incantation, I could give you my wand and you could try until you were blue in the face but nothing will happen. That's just the way it works!"

At the end of this, Harry was breathing hard, his face twisted into a scowl. But the scowl soon disappeared as soon as his words sunk in and took effect on Dudley. He seemed to deflate like a big, blue-eyed balloon. He slumped in the chair, staring at the ground again and he seemed utterly defeated.

"Dud," said Harry, softer this time, "I'm sorry. But I can't change it."

"You're leaving, aren't you?" said Dudley, suddenly switching tack, "When you turn seventeen?"

"Yeah, I am. Why?"

"What'm I gonna do then?" asked Dudley, "What'm I gonna do if they come for me, or my mum, or my dad? If you're not here, what…"

Again, Dudley couldn't bring himself to finish the thought. Harry was appalled. It hadn't once occurred to him that his departure might have a negative effect on the Dursleys. Whenever he'd pictured the scene in his mind he'd always conjured images of a wild, uncontrollable party with lots of laughter as his aunt and uncle celebrated their seperation from the magical world. But, on reflection, Harry supposed he should have seen this coming. The worlds of Muggles and wizards were melding now, more so than ever. Voldemort had little regard for secrecy, and he certainly didn't care how many people got killed or hurt or learnt of his existence. The horrors of Harry's world were imposing themselves on the world of the citizens of Privet Drive to such an extent that even Dudley was feeling the heat.

"I don't know, Dudley," said Harry, lamely, "I don't know what you're going to do. But I can't stay."

"Why not?"

"Do you really want me here?"

"Yes."

Dudley answered so simply, and so quickly, that Harry felt an unexpected lump rise in his throat.

"Really?"

"If the dementors come, you're the only one who can save my mum and dad," said Dudley.

Harry rubbed at his scar again, his brain buzzing. Of all the obstacles, of all the considerations he'd turned over in his mind for the past few weeks, this was the last one he'd expected to face. He looked up into Dudley's round, sweaty face, and decided the truth was his only resort.

"I have to go," he said, "The dementors can be stopped, but I can't do it from Privet Drive. They're being controlled by a wizard. His name is Voldemort. Remember, I told you about him too, that night. He's evil, Dudley, more evil than you know and he's the one who's setting the dementors loose on Muggles. He's the one I've got to find, and stop. If I don't, none of us are safe. Not you, your mum, your dad, or anybody."

Dudley seemed to consider this for a moment, then:

"Why you?" he asked, showing unaccustomed shrewdness, "Why can't your… your Ministry, or whatever, stop this Voldemort?"

"That's just the way it is," said Harry, "It'll take too long to explain. He's the one who gave me this scar, when he killed my parents, and I'm the only one who can stop him. That's the way it is."

"Fine," said Dudley, standing. He seemed to have regained his old, petulant look now, "Fine, if you won't help us. I'll find another way."

"Dudley –"

But Dudley strode across the room and didn't look back. He opened the door, turned out the light, and was gone. Harry flopped back in his bed, replaying the strange conversation over in his mind. If anything, he was more anxious now than ever. Whatever the Dursleys were; mean-spirited, petty, vindictive – the list went on and on – the fact was, they were Harry's last remaining family. And they felt the threat of Voldemort. Harry tossed and turned for another hour, struggling to regain the comfort of sleep. At long, last he drifted off, slipping into a familiar dream. A little while later, a murmur slipped from his lips, full of menace and meaning:

"_I'm coming for you, Tom!"_


	2. Uncle Vernon's Slip

**Chapter Two – Uncle Vernon's Slip**

Harry tried to corner Dudley at breakfast the next morning. He wanted to explain that his refusal to teach Dudley magical defence wasn't born out of spite, as some sort of revenge for Dudley's years of torture during their childhood, but nothing more than fact. Muggles were Muggles and wizards were wizards. Harry hadn't made these rules. But it soon became evident that Harry wouldn't get the chance. As soon as he tried to start a conversation Dudley cut him off with a surly: "Eat dung, Potter!"

Dudley made sure he spat this low enough for his mother not to hear. It was unthinkable to Petunia Dursley that her son would ever use foul language. Dudley, meanwhile, tried to drown his anger and frustration in a basin-sized bowl of cereal. Harry was given half a slice of toast and tepid tea. After that, Harry didn't feel quite so sorry that he'd be leaving the Dursleys unprotected in less than a month.

The day didn't get much better after breakfast. Uncle Vernon told Harry to mow the lawn. Normally, this wouldn't have been so terrible except, as Uncle Vernon pointed out with a twisted, smug smile, the lawnmower was broken and Harry would have to use a pair of garden shears and cut the grass on his hands and knees. After that, he had to sweep out the driveway, mop the floor of the garage (why, though, Harry couldn't tell), and wash Uncle Vernon's new car. Harry suspected that Dudley had spoken to his parents that morning – no doubt spinning them a tearful story about some unforgivable trespass that Harry must have committed against him, prompting the Dursleys to work Harry like a house elf. Harry didn't think for a second that Dudley would have told them the truth: that he had come to Harry in the middle of the night, begging to learn magic. And Harry didn't bother to tell them either. They would never have believed him.

Instead, Harry put his head down and did as he was told, all the while inventing outlandish curse spells in his head and imagining himself trying them out on Dudley. Curses like: _Nocturnalis _(a curse that would shrivel up Dudley's sickly blue eyes and leave him blinded), _Gymloadenum _(a transfiguration charm that would turn Dudley into a punching bag so that he could see what it felt like for once), and finally, _Gypsy-Arrive' _(a banishing charm that would transform his cousin into a circus freak).

But as much fun as making up fake curses were, Harry was still mortally tired when Aunt Petunia finally called him in to dinner. Harry, arms aching, barely had the energy to wash his hands and flop down into a chair at the kitchen table, pulling his cold bowl of soup towards him and picking up his spoon. The Dursleys were already halfway through their meal, and acted as though Harry hadn't arrived. Uncle Vernon was buried behind the evening paper, Dudley was wholly focussed on his plate and Aunt Petunia was daintily sipping her soup, her pinkie flung out like a beacon. Uncle Vernon grunted and rustled the paper, obviously disgruntled about something he had just read.

"Vernon, dear, I wish you wouldn't read at the table," said Petunia.

Uncle Vernon lowered the paper at once, but didn't put it aside.

"The world's going to the dogs!" he announced, as though he'd just made some hitherto unfathomable connection, "Nothing in here but crime, corruption and trash!"

"That's what sells papers, dear," said Petunia knowledgeably, "The riffraff will never be happy unless they read about people worse off than themselves."

Harry fought the suddenly overwhelming urge to groan and shake his head. He knew perfectly well that his aunt and uncle were never happier than when they had the opportunity to look down their pretentious noses at those less fortunate.

"Says here there's been a record number of suicides this year," said Vernon, "Especially among _teenagers_ –" he almost spat the word 'teenagers', as though it were something foul, "You know what the problem is? I'll tell you. Lack of discipline and hard work. When I was a boy, we knew the value of an honest day's labour. We never had time to think about getting depressed."

An odd silence fell over the table when he'd finished. Harry was the first to realise what it was. Dudley had stopped his loud munching and, indeed, he sat frozen, half a chicken leg hovering partway to his mouth. Petunia noticed it too, and was immediately concerned.

"What's the matter, Diddykins?" she asked, in a sickeningly honeyish voice, "You don't like the chicken? Mummy can braise a lamb quickly, if you like."

Dudley mutely shook his head, but he lowered the chicken to his plate and sat back. Harry knew what Dudley was thinking. He'd said that two people in his school had attempted suicide, driven to the action by the pall of the dementors and Dudley probably wasn't very happy with the crass attitude displayed by his father. If the situation weren't so serious, Harry might have felt a glimmer of triumph that Dudley's blinders towards his parents' faults had finally been lifted. But he didn't. Again, he felt oddly sorry for Dudley.

"Dudders," said Petunia again, "What's the matter?"

Dudley didn't answer. Instead he pushed his chair back, rose and stalked from the room, leaving his half-finished plate of food behind. This in itself was significant enough to shock the Dursleys. As far as Harry could recall, Dudley had never failed to finish a meal in his life. Vernon and Petunia shared a stunned look after Dudley had left the room, and then immediately rounded on Harry. Of course, whatever was bothering Dudley must be Harry's fault.

"Out!" commanded Aunt Petunia, snatching away Harry's bowl.

"Landing your cousin in a foul mood!" declared Uncle Vernon, flinging the paper down.

"Never right when you're here! Never! Never! Never!"

Harry couldn't even find the energy to argue with them. He just stood, stomach still rumbling, and left the kitchen. He climbed the stairs and stopped on the landing outside his room. Dudley's door was firmly shut, and Harry could hear loud, raucous rock music blaring from Dudley's stereo system. He shook his head and entered his room. Immediately, his spirits were lifted when he saw the beautiful snow-white owl perched on top of the cage on his desk.

"Hedwig!" he cried happily, as he rushed to greet her, "Boy, am I glad to see you!"

Hedwig hooted softly, letting him know that she was glad to see him too.

"What's that you've got there?"

Hedwig had two messages tied to her leg, which she dutifully held out so Harry could remove them. He frowned and studied the writing on both, absently stroking Hedwig's feathers as he did. The writing on the first was in his best friend Ron's illegible scrawl. Harry sometimes thought Ron could find good employment as a writer of coded messages. He wouldn't even need ciphers. All he'd have to do is write the message in English, and no foreign spy would ever be able to unscramble his messy handwriting. The writing on the other message, though, was far from messy. It was written in neat, clipped script, showing his (Harry's) name and nothing else.

Putting aside his curiosity, Harry opened Ron's message first.

_Hey mate_ (it read),

_Hope you're doing okay. We're all fine here, just getting ready for Bill and Phlegm's big day. Dad's driving us all bonkers, of course, reckons that because we're holding the ceremony at home he has a say in everything. Phlegm's not too happy about that, and neither is mum, I can tell you. She nearly had kittens when he came home with this huge organ that he bought at a Muggle pawnshop and bewitched to play the wedding march. Of course, you know dad – he got the tunes mixed up and now it plays the funeral march over and over and we can't get it to stop. Anyway, the wedding's on Saturday and mum said you should be here by Friday with your dress robes. Dad's too busy to fetch you, and mum won't hear anything about letting you apparate. So Fred and George said they'd come get you on their brooms and mum reckons that'll be alright 'coz Lupin's staying at the Leaky Cauldron and he said he'd come with them._

_So, anyway, see you on Friday then. And please, bring Ginny a present or something. I'm not saying this to be mean, mate, but she hasn't stopped crying since we got back from school and she's worse than the organ, I swear!_

_Ron._

Harry felt an immediate, and painful twinge of guilt when he read these last words. _Ginny hasn't stopped crying_… Of course, Ginny's malaise was all his fault and, for the life of him, Harry couldn't think of a way to make her feel better. The last thing he wanted was for Ginny to cry, especially over him…

To distract himself from this painful line of thought, Harry opened the second message.

_Dear Harry,_

_It is imperative that we talk. I'll be stopping round at your aunt and uncle's on Wednesday night. Please let them know that I'm coming. I have something of the gravest import to discuss with you._

_Yours,_

_Professor McGonagall._

Harry frowned at the message and read it again. For a moment, he wondered how Professor McGonagall had gotten the message to Hedwig, but this was quickly dismissed by other questions. She was coming here to Privet Drive? What was that about? Last year Professor Dumbledore had arrived at the Dursleys' to see him and now his successor at Hogwarts was looking for a repeat performance. Harry couldn't understand why McGonagall wanted to speak to him. He'd been under the impression that they'd said everything they needed to say to each other at the end of term. Professor McGonagall had questioned him about the mission Harry and Professor Dumbledore had undertaken the night Dumbledore died. Harry had refused point blank to tell her, believing it would be a betrayal of Dumbledore's trust. Harry had been quite emphatic about it and Professor McGonagall had let it go. Was she coming by to try, once again, to persuade him to reveal the purpose of that last journey with Dumbledore? If so, she was out of luck. It was now Harry's journey alone – except for Ron and Hermione, who knew everything and were determined to be by his side until the very end – and Harry would just have to disappoint her if she tried. Harry considered sending Hedwig back to McGonagall with a message telling her exactly that – that he would not reveal anything, but he quickly thought better of it. Hedwig had only just returned from a long journey. And if he was honest with himself, Harry felt he owed it to the Professor to tell her off to her face. If, indeed, that was what he had to do.

Harry rolled up both messages and laid them on the desk. After scrummaging in his drawer for an owl treat, which Hedwig gratefully accepted, Harry flung himself down on his bed and lapsed into thought.

Professor McGonagall's message had brought up the memory of Dumbledore's final night. He still felt alarmingly close to tears whenever he remembered the events of that night. His journey to the distant cave with Dumbledore… the battle against the inferi… the fake Horcrux… the Dark Mark over Hogwarts… Malfoy threatening a defenceless Dumbledore… Snape's betrayal…

_Snape!_

It was like a fuse was lit inside Harry's stomach when he thought of Snape. He could see Snape's sallow, deathly-pale, wrinkled face swimming in front of his eyes, almost immediately blooded a deep scarlet as a hot rage overcame him. Snape had killed Dumbledore. _Snape had killed Dumbledore!_

Even now, more than two weeks later, it was hard to believe. Harry had loathed Snape since the moment they met on his first day at Hogwarts. He had never trusted the potions master with the eerie infatuation with the Dark Arts… but Dumbledore _had_ trusted Snape. A trust that proved, in the end, to be severely misplaced. Snape's allegiance was with Voldemort. For Voldemort's cause, Snape had lifted his wand, pointed it at Dumbledore and, without hesitating, uttered the Killing Curse that sucked the life from one of the greatest, most powerful wizards of all time. Snape had robbed Harry of his greatest ally, and left him without a close and benevolent friend.

Harry's life was set on a collision course with Voldemort. He knew that. But if Snape happened to fall as collateral damage somewhere along the way – Harry wouldn't shed a tear. Harry stayed up late into the night thinking up more curses. Darker, more viscous curses. This time his target wasn't Dudley, but Snape. And Harry was sure that, if the opportunity arose, he would use those curses with even less hesitation than Snape had shown in killing Hogwarts' old headmaster.

Harry skipped breakfast the next morning, reasoning that there was no chance that the Dursleys' mood had improved enough to go back to ignoring him. While Aunt Petunia busied herself in the kitchen, he slipped out the front door and set off up Privet Drive. He had no set destination in mind. He figured a long, winding walk around the village was as good a way as any to kill off some time. He cut through Wisteria Walk which joined onto Privet Drive, heading for Magnolia Crescent. Halfway down the road, he heard a shout behind him.

"Harry! Harry, dear!"

Harry turned. Mrs Figg was clumping down her driveway, waving to get his attention. Mrs Figg was the woman who had babysat Harry when he was younger. He'd hated the long afternoons he'd spent with her discussing all things cats and cat-related. He'd always believed she was nothing more than a slightly senile old neighbour, until the night of the dementor attacks. Then she revealed that she was, in fact, a squib – someone born into a wizarding family but with an embarrassing lack of magical ability. She had, he learned, been stationed in Little Whinging to keep an eye on him. Harry turned on the spot and made his way back up the sidewalk to her gate, where she greeted him with a pleasant, but almost-toothless smile.

"Morning, Mrs Figg," said Harry.

"Morning dear," said Mrs Figg, "Why are you out so early then?"

"Just felt like a walk," said Harry, with a non-committal shrug.

"Have you had any breakfast?"

"No," said Harry. His stomach immediately chimed in with a deep rumble as if to emphasise the point.

"Well, come in. Come in, then," said Mrs Figg, opening the gate.

Harry hesitated. He wasn't sure if he really wanted any company right now, but his empty stomach made it's feelings known again and he stepped through the gate. Mrs Figg led him up the short walk and into the house. Harry was steeling himself for it, but he still wasn't quite prepared for the smell that hit him the minute he stepped through the door. Wet cat fur, and kitty litter. It seemed, as Harry looked around, that the multitude of cats that Mrs Figg already owned had been quite busy breeding since his last visit. They were everywhere. Great tawny cats, frizzled gingers, spotted toms – it looked like every surface was a moving, furry mass. Harry doubted that even his friend Hermione, who had a cat of her own, would like this place. When Mrs Figg offered Harry a seat he hesitated again, certain that wherever he sat down he'd dislodge some sleeping feline. Mrs Figg solved the problem by shooing a tubby grey off its seat in an armchair and then scuttling into the kitchen, her slippers flapping as she walked.

Harry settled on the very edge of the armchair, to limit the amount of cat hair he could attract and looked around. The place had barely changed at all since he'd last seen it. It was musty, crowded with ancient, creaking furniture, scattered with a mess of magazines and knitting equipment and, of course, teeming with cats. The only thing that had changed were the photographs on the mantelpiece and lining the walls. They were pictures of what Harry presumed to be Mrs Figg's family, but now the pictures were moving. This was not an unusual sight to Harry, who was now used to the fact that wizards and witches in photographs couldn't very well be expected to hang around all day. But Harry was certain that the last time he'd been here, a few years ago, the pictures had been stationary – regular Muggle pictures. He idly wondered how Mrs Figg, a squib, had managed this little trick.

Before he could give the matter much thought, a tuttering Mrs Figg returned with a tray. She pulled a small end table over to Harry with her foot and set the tray down. Harry was pleased to see a sizeable stack of hot french toast, fairly drowning in golden syrup, scrambled eggs and three rinds of bacon, completed with a steaming mug of sweet tea. He thanked Mrs Figg heartily and tucked in. Mrs Figg smiled at him and settled down in another armchair to watch him. Halfway through his eggs, Harry realised that Mrs Figg was staring at him. He looked up and almost choked. Mrs Figg was crying silently, though she didn't look away. Indeed she stared, as though Harry were the only thing in the room.

"Wass'a'ter?" Harry spluttered, spraying bits of food onto the dull carpet. He swallowed quickly, cleared his throat and asked, "What's the matter?"

"I.. I'm so… sorry…" blabbered Mrs Figg, removing a massive pink handkerchief and blowing her nose with a loud hooting sound, "It's just…" she sniffed, struggling for control, "It's just… I never thought it possible, but… you look… you look even more like your father than ever you did."

"You knew my dad?" said Harry, startled by this slice of information.

Mrs Figg nodded, and tried a reassuring smile. The effect was ruined by the fact that her nose was running.

"Before Dumbledore asked me to move here, I… I lived in Godric's Hollow. Just up the road from where your mum and dad lived."

Harry couldn't believe his ears, "You lived in Godric's Hollow? You knew them? Then, you must have been there when – "

"They were killed?" said Mrs Figg, "Yes. Yes I was. Awful night that was – half the house blown away by the power of the spells. It was dreadful. I wanted to go to them… check that they were alright, but…" she honked loudly into her handkerchief again, "But I was sure nobody could have survived and… Oh, Harry, I'm so ashamed to admit this, but… I was scared. I didn't think I could do anything, being a squib and all."

"That's okay," said Harry, "You couldn't have. You would've just come face to face with Voldemort if you'd tried."

At the sound of Voldemort's name, Mrs Figg let out a frightened yelp. She unconsciously squeezed the cat she was holding in her lap so hard that it shrieked, jumped up, slashed a paw at her face and leapt onto the mantelpiece, knocking a few of the pictures off onto the floor. Harry ignored the cat. He had something else on his mind.

"Can you tell me how to get there?" he asked.

"Where?"

"Godric's Hollow," said Harry. "I wanted to visit, and I was going to check a map or something, but if you lived there..."

"Of course, dear, but… Why would you want to go back?"

"My parents are buried there," said Harry, "I've never seen their graves."

Mrs Figg gave him a look that was very familiar. It was the same look Mrs Weasley always fixed on him whenever she saw him. Like he was some adorable little pygmy puff or something. To hide his discomfort, Harry polished off his bacon and toast.

After Mrs Figg told him how to get to Godric's Hollow using Muggle transport, he spent a surprisingly enjoyable day in her company. It turned out that the pictures on the walls weren't the only ones she'd kept hidden from Harry. She had a cupboard full of old photo albums that she delighted in paging through them, telling Harry funny stories about the wizards and witches they contained. Harry was particularly amused by a picture of Professor Flitwick taken over fifty years ago ("From the night we went to a Halloween Ball at the old Salem Club in Diagon Alley, dear boy."). He was dressed in a frock coat with tails, big-buckled half-boots and a smart bowler hat. The tiny Charms Professor would swoop into a lavish bow every few seconds, his bowler hat tipping off his head and onto the floor. Harry thought he looked like a leprechaun.

They enjoyed a lunch of braised fish and, before Harry knew it, the afternoon had flown past and it started getting dark. He bid his goodbyes to Mrs Figg, thinking that she wasn't such a mad old coot after all as he traipsed back up Wisteria Walk towards Privet Drive. Now that she didn't care what the Dursleys thought of her she was quite pleasant. Could use a few less cats, though, Harry decided. He entered Privet Drive and made his way to Number Four, his curiosity growing. Professor McGonagall might be on her way even now. And Harry dearly wanted to know what she had to say.


	3. The Temptation of the Badge

**Chapter Three – The Temptation Of The Badge**

Harry found himself growing surprisingly agitated as he waited for Professor McGonagall to arrive. At dinner, he'd waited until the family had finished the meal and just started clearing the plates before he mentioned that Hogwarts's new headmistress was popping around for a visit that evening. On reflection, Harry considered that he could have timed the announcement a bit better. Aunt Petunia promptly dropped the stack of plates she was carrying – although the crash it made did drown out the loud curse that had shot from Uncle Vernon's mouth.

The family now waited stiffly in the living room, counting down the slow seconds until McGonagall's arrival. Harry understood the Dursleys' trepidation. When Dumbledore had visited last year they'd been barraged by three rather insistent mugs of mead that banged off the sides of their heads when they refused to drink, before being given a stern lecture on manners by Dumbledore himself. Dudley was slouched in a chair in the corner, staring at a spot on the floor, his sombre mood still lingering. Uncle Vernon counted the bricks in the fireplace while Aunt Petunia kept popping up and glancing out the window.

"What time did this woman say she'd arrive?" barked Uncle Vernon for the tenth time in half an hour.

Harry sighed and answered in a bored voice, "She didn't say. All the message said was that she was coming round tonight."

"Any sign of her, Petunia?" asked Vernon, turning to his wife who had her pointed nose pressed against the glass of the window.

"No," said Petunia, "Just a cat that's just walked into the yard. It'd better not go near my begonias or I'll chase it with the kitchen broom."

Harry whiled away a few seconds imagining his aunt rushing down Privet Drive, wielding a broom and shrieking at the top of her voice as every cat in the village fled in terror. Somehow, the image wasn't nearly as funny as it should have been.

Aunt Petunia had just drawn her face away, allowing the frilly lace curtain to fall back into place when the doorbell rang. She yelped in fright, Uncle Vernon choked and even Dudley managed to look up.

"Who is…? But – How…? I…" spluttered Aunt Petunia.

Harry jumped to his feet and ran to the door. He opened it and was far less surprised than his aunt or uncle to find Professor McGonagall standing there. She wasn't wearing robes – but the severe ankle-length dress and frock coat she _was_ wearing gave the same effect.

"Professor," said Harry, "Please, come in."

"Thank you, Harry," said Professor McGonagall, stepping into the hallway as Harry closed the door behind her. Her eyes immediately fell on the display case and Dudley's boxing trophy. She frowned slightly but, as always, Harry found it hard to guess what she was thinking.

"Shiny, isn't it?" he said, because he could think of nothing else.

"Yes, it is," said McGonagall, "It rather puts the Quidditch Cup to shame."

Harry led the professor through into the living room, where Aunt Petunia was now standing beside Uncle Vernon. Dudley hadn't moved. Harry knew they detested having wizards of any kind in their home, but the fact that Professor McGonagall was a woman (a severe and rather stern woman, but a woman nonetheless) seemed to subdue any tendencies to be less than friendly that Uncle Vernon might otherwise have entertained. He settled for a stiff, short bow. Professor McGonagall nodded in his direction.

"Good evening," she said, "I am Professor McGonagall, headmistress of Hogwarts. I'm sure Harry told you I was coming."

Uncle Vernon nodded. It was about as deep as the bow he'd just offered.

"Can I get you anything, professor?" asked Harry, to be polite.

"Some tea would be lovely. Thank you, Harry."

Harry nodded, and after a last, wary glance at the Dursleys, he left the room and crossed to the kitchen. He drummed his fingers impatiently on the counter, waiting for the kettle to boil. He wondered what was going on the living room – how awkward was that conversation, exactly? If there was any conversation at all. Harry decided this was the safer bet – he couldn't imagine McGonagall having anything to say to Aunt Petunia. At last, the kettle boiled and Harry made the tea. He carried the cup and matching saucer through to the living room where McGonagall had settled herself on the sofa. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia sat together on the other sofa. They were facing each other across the low coffee table mounted by a huge vase of fake flowers. You could cut the unease in the air with a blunt knife.

"You have a lovely home," McGonagall was saying, "A really… neat garden. I loved the begonias."

Aunt Petunia turned purple. She looked like she was about to say something but managed to restrain herself at the last second.

"Your tea, professor," said Harry, holding out the cup.

"Thank you, Harry." McGonagall took it, and sipped at it once before setting it aside. Harry wondered if his tea was really that bad, but Professor McGonagall was now focussed solely on him and he sat down.

"I'm glad you agreed to see me, Harry," she said.

"Well, I kind of didn't –" Harry started to tell her that she hadn't exactly given him a choice, but McGonagall was already carrying on.

"We need to discuss your future. I feel it's vitally important."

"My future?" said Harry.

"His future?" said Uncle Vernon, speaking for the first time. Both Harry and Professor McGonagall turned to look at him. "The only future that boy's got is a date with the warden of a prison. He's been a bad sort from the start, and I for one will not be surprised if –"

"Yes, Harry, your future," said McGonagall, turning back to face Harry and acting as though Uncle Vernon hadn't said a word. Uncle Vernon looked furious to be snubbed like that but, again, it seemed he was reluctant to say anything harsh to a woman.

"I have it on good authority that you have decided not to return to Hogwarts this year."

"Who's authority?" Harry demanded.

"You're not going back?" Uncle Vernon piped in again, "Why not? Couldn't cut it, could you, boy?"

"That's not –" Harry began, rising to his feet and preparing to unload on his uncle, but again McGonagall cut him off.

"I hate to be rude, but would you mind terribly if Harry and I chat in private?" she asked, quite politely.

"You're asking me to leave my own living room?" said Vernon.

"Yes," said McGonagall, "If you don't mind."

Harry could see that Uncle Vernon minded very much. He turned to Aunt Petunia, who only shrugged, apparently just as lost for a solution.

"Fine!" snapped Uncle Vernon, standing and tugging his jacket straight. He marched from the room, Petunia following, and muttered what sounded like: "Disgraceful… uncouth… unheard of…" under his breath as he went. Harry faced McGonagall again once they'd left the room.

"Who told you that?" he asked, not bothering to hide his annoyance. Harry couldn't say why, but he was hoping that he wouldn't have to deal with any lengthy explanations about his decision not to return to Hogwarts until he absolutely had to. At least not until after the trip to Godric's Hollow. He felt that to justify his decision to an authority figure like McGonagall would make the situation more real. And, on some level, he wasn't prepared to let the knowledge that he'd probably never see Hogwarts again be _that_ fixed in his mind yet.

"Miss Granger told me," said McGonagall, "She's staying with the Weasleys at the moment, as I'm sure you know. I had occasion to visit with Arthur this week to discuss a few matters concerning the Order, and I was able to piggyback on young master Ron's message to you."

_Well, that explains how Hedwig got her message_, thought Harry.

"So the Order's still operating then?" he asked.

"Of course it is," said McGonagall, "I daresay the Order of the Phoenix is needed now more than ever."

"Yeah… yeah, you're right, I suppose," said Harry.

"In any case, I took the opportunity to have a chat to Miss Granger while I was there. I asked her about you, and she seemed overcome by a horrible malady…" Professor McGonagall actually smirked at this point, "She turned a bright shade of pink and seemed to become strangely mute all of a sudden. Alas, Miss Granger has always found it difficult not to answer a question posed by a teacher."

Harry couldn't help but smile himself, but it quickly faded. He looked down for a second, choosing his words, and then back up at McGonagall again. She sat quite straight, waiting patiently for his explanation.

"There's no point anymore," said Harry, eventually, "Now that… now that Dumbledore's gone, it's all kind of blown up, hasn't it? Even… even forgetting how it affects us personally, Voldemort scored a victory that night. A major one. Everyone's always said that Dumbledore's the only one Voldemort was ever scared of. Now that he's gone, Voldemort's going to get a lot braver, and a lot more people are going to die unless I stop him."

"You think the sole responsibility for the destruction of He Who Must Not Be Named rests upon your shoulders alone?" asked McGonagall, with the faintest patronising tone to her words.

"I know it is!" said Harry, shortly, "Professor Dumbledore knew it too. You never heard the prophecy – the one the Death Eaters tried to steal from the Ministry. It said as much. It said it came down to me and Voldemort, and even that doesn't matter! He's responsible for all of this. For Dumbledore, for my parents… I can't just go back to school and pretend it's all okay again!"

"Harry, I'm not asking you to pretend that everything's okay," said McGonagall, "But you still have one year left in your magical education. Probably your most important year, and you want to forego that to face the most dangerous wizard alive?"

"I've faced him before," said Harry, "I always get away."

"Yes, you do. And we're all terribly proud of you for that. But you're talking about _destroying_ You Know Who. That, surely, will be far more difficult than anything you've done thus far."

"I've got to try," said Harry stubbornly, "There's more. There's other things I have to do first… things I have to track down and it'll take time."

Harry was thinking of the Horcruxes, of course, though he realised that Professor McGonagall was ignorant of the existence of these fiendish devices. According to Professor Dumbledore, after leaving school, Lord Voldemort had set about creating seven magical Horcruxes: evil inventions that allowed the wizard making them to split his own soul and house them in objects outside of his body, thus making the wizard practically immortal. If the wizard was killed, his soul would live on in the Horcruxes, allowing him to return, which explained why the _Avada Kedavra_ curse Voldemort used on Harry as baby didn't kill him when it backfired. Harry didn't say any of this to McGonagall, though.

"Harry, please, I want you to think of the larger picture here," said McGonagall, "He Who Must Not Be Named poses more than just a physical threat. He is a threat to our very way of life. The fear he inspires can cripple those who have never even set eyes upon him. Especially now, without the reassuring presence of Professor Dumbledore."

"All the more reason for me to find him and finish him off," said Harry.

"There may be some weight to that argument, certainly," said McGonagall, "But I fear that, even if you do succeed, untold damage might already have been done to Hogwarts. The school governors have voted for Hogwarts to remain open, but it was by a split decision only. Fear and unease are everywhere, especially at Hogwarts. Our defences were breached and… the impossible occurred. I would be lying if I said I wasn't concerned that Hogwarts may close before the end of the school year. For good."

"What's that got to do with me?" asked Harry. He tried to say the words casually, even haughtily, but they tore at him like whips of fire. He cared very much about what happened to Hogwarts. The old castle had been the first place he'd ever felt at home. The first place he'd ever made any true friends. It was where he belonged.

_Not any more!_ thought Harry, viscously. _That's over now!_

"It's got everything to do with you," said McGonagall, fixing Harry with the softest expression he had ever seen on her face, "After Dumbledore, _you_, Harry, are the heart of Hogwarts. Nobody has epitomised the spirit of the school more than you in all the years I've taught within it's walls. In six years you've exemplified courage, loyalty, and a singular determination to face any obstacle."

Harry felt his cheeks grow warm as she spoke and he squirmed on his seat. He didn't want to listen to this. He fixed the task he'd set at the end of the year in his mind and tried to focus on it. Finishing Voldemort was all-important. Nothing should be allowed to stand in the way of that. Not even Hogwarts. Professor McGonagall seemed to read his mind, because the next thing she said was:

"He's left the country."

"Who?"

"He Who Must Not Be Named. He's not anywhere on the British Isles. I have this from the most reliable sources – sources put in place by Professor Dumbledore himself. Most of his Death Eaters, Severus Snape among them, have also gone to ground. You are quite right when you say that You Know Who won a victory the night Dumbledore died, but now they fear a backlash from the Ministry of Magic the likes of which they have never seen. I suppose we should have known that this would be the tactic he would choose. You Know Who was never one for open conflict. He would rather stay hidden, in the shadows, biding his time and allowing terror to spread."

"Then I'll flush him from the shadows," said Harry, fiercely, "Him and Snape! I'll find them both and kill them!"

"And how do you propose to do that?" countered McGonagall, regaining the clipped, curt tones she employed so effectively in her classes, "Are you going to bang around the world blindly, hoping to bump into him in some wayside inn?"

"No," said Harry, "I'm –"

But he had to stop because, really, he didn't know what he was going to do. He knew what had to be done – the Horcruxes had to be found and destroyed before any battle with Voldemort could stand a chance of ending with Voldemort's death. But how, exactly, to accomplish that… Harry had no idea.

"Harry," said McGonagall, her tone softer again, "I'm not trying to make light of your convictions. I understand them. Professor Dumbledore trusted you and so do I. Miss Granger tells me you intend to travel to your parents old home, and I agree with this course. It's right that you pay your respects, and see for yourself the place where all this started. By all means, search for the trail to He Who Must Not Be Named, but… but I'm asking you to trust _me_ now, Harry. Dumbledore showed faith in me too. In my judgement. And it is my belief that the best place for you is Hogwarts. The best course is to finish your schooling and then embark on this quest – as armed and prepared as you could possibly be."

Harry looked away from her. His eyes flicked to the window. He could see the outline of the moon behind the curtains and he stared at it's silver shadow for a long moment. Was she right? Was he only hampering his own ability to fight Voldemort by leaving school early? But what was there to gain by waiting? Surely Voldemort would only grow stronger. Professor McGonagall was speaking again, and Harry had to force himself to look at her.

"I want to be honest with you, Harry," she said, "My motives for asking you to return are quite selfish. At least in part. I do believe that more families would be willing to send their children back to school if they knew that you would be returning. You, the boy who was Dumbledore's favourite. I know about your falling out with the Ministry as well. Arthur Weasley has told me about it. At first glance, it might appear that I am asking the same thing that Rufus Scrimgeour asked of you. To be a –"

"Poster boy," said Harry.

"Exactly," said McGonagall, "But I am hoping you will realise that what's best for Hogwarts is also best for you. And I hope that you don't think that I'm trying to take advantage of you. Because I'm not, Harry."

"I believe you," said Harry, "You love Hogwarts as much as I do. As much as Dumbledore did."

"Precisely. And it's for the love of the school that I act now."

McGonagall reached inside her coat and withdrew a small, velvet bag, drawn shut by a golden string. She held it cupped in her hand and regarded Harry once more.

"Again, I'm asking you to trust me when I tell you that I was planning to offer you this _before_ I heard that you weren't planning to return. I'm offering it to you because you deserve it and for no other reason. It is by no means a…" she smirked slightly, "A _bargaining chip_."

She held out the velvet bag and, after a second's hesitation, Harry took it. He frowned at McGonagall, but she only nodded, indicating that he should open it, the smile still on her face. Harry pulled at the string and opened the bag. Gripping it at the end he tipped it over so that what was inside spilled out onto his palm. He stared at the object, unable to believe what he was seeing. It was a small, heavy, silver badge shaped like a shield. It was delicately engraved with a faint motif of the Hogwarts crest, with the initials 'HB', stencilled over it in gold leaf. Harry couldn't believe his eyes. He looked up at Professor McGonagall meaning to question her but he could do little more than gape.

"So that's the question before you, Harry," she said, "Without any frills or fancy invitations. Will you return to Hogwarts as our Head Boy? Will you take up the task of leading the school?"

When Harry found his voice at last, he found that it had been transformed into a startlingly high-pitched, squeaky version of it's former self in it's absence.

"But… but… but I'm not even a Prefect," he spluttered.

"I know," said McGonagall, "Your case is unusual. But it's not unheard of for someone who wasn't a Prefect to be named Head Boy."

"You're joking," said Harry, "When did that happen?"

"Well, the last time it happened, was when your father, James, became Head Boy."

Harry felt like all the blood in his body had suddenly leaked out and he was left weak – dazed. _Of course!_ He'd known that his father was Head Boy and his mother Head Girl. He'd also known that of his father's little group, the Marauders, only Lupin had been made a Prefect. But, for reasons he couldn't fathom, he'd never made that particular connection before.

"I won't ask you for an answer now," said McGonagall, snapping Harry back to reality, "I'll leave the badge with you, for now. Please think on everything I've said. Weigh it up and then tell me what you've decided." She rose, and stepped to the doorway, where she turned back, "I'll see you at the wedding."

And with that, she left. Harry was so flattened he didn't even consider showing her out. As if it were a magnet, Harry's eyes were drawn to the badge in his hand. It felt, if anything, even heavier now. And it was so beautiful, the way it glittered in the light…

_Careful, _Harry told himself, _You're beginning to think like Percy!_

"You should go."

Harry was so shocked by the voice that he almost screamed. He swung his head around, half-expecting a ghost to drift through the wall, but then he saw Dudley sitting in the same chair he'd been in since dinner. Harry had completely forgotten he was there, amazing as that was.

"What?"

"You should listen to her," said Dudley, softly, "She made sense. You should learn everything you can and then fight that… that man you talked about – Voldemort."

"You don't understand, Dudley," said Harry, staring at the badge again.

"I understand better than you think," said Dudley, "You've always wanted to do the quick, stupid thing."

"Ha!" Harry laughed, "That's rich, coming from you."

"When we were kids and you got bitten by Mrs Robinson's rottweiller, I may have laughed but you were the one who wanted to jump the fence and prove you could ride the thing. You were always doing things like that. You liked danger. You always have. But for once, _for once _–" Dudley was on his feet now and he stepped closer so he loomed over Harry, "Do the smart thing. There's more going on here than just you. There's my mum, my dad and everyone else to consider. This affects all of us, Harry."

It was, without doubt, the most comprehensive and well-articulated speech Harry had ever heard slither from between his cousin's lips. It affected Harry more than anything Professor McGonagall had said. Coupled with Dudley's plea two nights ago, it made for a pretty convincing argument.

"Even if I do go back, I'll still be leaving this place," he said, "And once I leave I won't come back."

"Doesn't matter," said Dudley, "I thought about it and… what matters is that you get him, Harry. Just get him!"

With that pronouncement, Dudley marched from the room. Harry was left feeling like he'd stepped into an alternate universe, a place where everything that was usually so solid and reliable, like his life-long feud with Dudley, was suddenly exploded and scattered like so much mist. He looked up when Dudley poked his head round the door again.

"Oh yeah," said Dudley, a ghost of a smile sneaking across his face, "Congratulations."

Before Harry could respond, he was gone again. Harry shook his head and stroked the badge, running his fingers along the engraved letters. _His father's badge!_ It was an honour he'd never even considered. A tangible vote of trust from McGonagall and the rest of the school. But one question remained. A question Harry doubted he had the faculties to answer.

_Was this badge, as valuable and meaningful as it was, worth risking a chance to end Voldemort's reign of terror?_

When Harry tried to return to his room he was stopped at the foot of the stairs by his uncle, who barked from the kitchen: "Get in here, boy!"

Taking a deep breath, Harry turned and entered the kitchen, closing his fingers around the velvet bag in his jeans pocket. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were sitting at the kitchen table. The TV was off, there were no tea cups, plates or anything that might indicate they were doing something other than waiting for Professor McGonagall to leave.

"What?" he asked, not in the mood for niceties.

"Don't take that tone with me," warned Uncle Vernon, "Now what did that woman mean? Why aren't you going back to school?"

"I have my reasons," said Harry.

"Oh, I can imagine," said Uncle Vernon, "Not all it's cracked up to be, being a freak, is it?"

"I'm not a freak," said Harry, "And watch what you say to me. Since I'm not going back to school, I'm not worried about being expelled for using magic."

At no point did Harry raise his voice, even slightly, but the threat was sufficient to stop Uncle Vernon saying any more. He settled for glaring at Harry. Aunt Petunia was studying Harry with a calculating expression.

"What happened?" she asked, "Why don't you want to go back?"

"Why are you so interested?" Harry retorted.

"It's our business to at least know where you are, even if we don't approve of what you're doing."

"Yeah, and you've done a bang up job of that so far!"

"Don't you speak to your aunt like that!" snapped Uncle Vernon.

"I'll speak to either of you the way I want!" stormed Harry. He didn't know why he was suddenly losing his temper. Maybe the pressure of this entire situation was getting to him. Maybe the insanity of existing in a house where magic was a dirty word was more than he could take any more, he didn't know. All he knew, was that it was time to tell the Dursleys exactly what was on his mind. He was leaving in less than forty-eight hours. He didn't care about consequences.

"How can you even call yourselves my aunt and uncle?" Harry was really shouting now, "When have you ever, _ever_, taken even the slightest interest in my life? You've treated me as nothing but a punishment as long as I can remember, and _none of it was my fault!_ Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I wanted my parents to die so I could be stuck with you? No! In almost seventeen years I can't remember a single kind thing either of you have ever done for me! Seventeen years! And why? Because of something I was born with! A talent! Not a curse! But you didn't understand it, so you treated me like a leper!"

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia looked stunned. They stared at Harry, mouths open, as though they couldn't understand where this outburst was coming from. But Harry wasn't finished.

"You say it's your business to know where I am, but when have you once asked me about the places I've been? Did you know that three years ago, I was transported to a graveyard and almost murdered by Voldemort?! Did you know that the only thing that saved me was the spectre of my parents? Did you know that two years ago I was in the middle of a battle at the Ministry of Magic where… where someone I loved – my godfather – a man who was more of a parent to me than you have ever been was killed?! Did you know that last year Dumbledore died?! I watched him murdered! Where were you when this was happening to me?! Where were you when I needed a family – a mother or a father to tell me it's going to be okay?! To tell me not to give up! You never cared! So I don't care about you!"

Harry finally fell into silence. Saying these words took so much from him that he fell back against the wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his legs trembling. Still, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon said nothing. Harry felt suddenly, and inexplicably close to tears. He tried to say something but he choked up, a grapefruit sized lump squeezing into his throat.

What was the point of all this? He knew the Dursleys hated him – he'd always known that. What was the point of this anger? Had he harboured some silly hope, even after all these years that maybe, just maybe, Aunt Petunia might someday prove that she was Lily Evans' sister? If he had, Harry felt really annoyed with himself. It was a false hope – a meaningless dream. Why rage against the way things were?

He reached into his pocket again, his fingers closing around the badge. He lifted it out, tipping the badge itself into his palm. He tossed it onto the table in front of Uncle Vernon. It landed with a loud _clink_ and spun on the spot for a few seconds before coming to a rest. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia stared at it. Aunt Petunia drew a sharp, surprised breath and quickly looked back Harry. He knew that she recognised it for what it was. She'd seen a similar badge before. The matching Head Girl badge. The one his mother had worn.

"Professor McGonagall asked me to be Head Boy tonight," said Harry, fighting through the emotion that threatened to steal his voice, "Do you know what a moment like that would look like in a normal house? Can you picture it? A mother and a father embracing a son for achieving something real – something good? There would be congratulations. There would be laughing, smiling, something… just not – not _this_. Not screaming at the top of our lungs because we can't understand each other."

Harry had, finally, had enough. He pushed himself off the wall, lifted the badge off the table and carefully placed it back in it's bag. He gave his aunt and uncle one last, pitying look, then turned to leave. He stopped short. Dudley was standing in the doorway, but he wasn't looking at Harry. He was looking at his parents, with an expression Harry had never dreamed he would see on Dudley's face. It was a look of utter disgust, mixed with more than a dose of anger. Harry crossed to the doorway and Dudley mutely stood aside to let him pass.

Harry knew what he had to do before he even reached his room. As soon as he entered, he set about clearing the place as he never had before. He tore every item of clothing from the cupboard, stashing it in his large school trunk. He gathered all the scattered spellbooks from their places on the desk and floor and stuffed those in too. His bottles of ink went next, along with his quills and parchment. He shut Hedwig up in her cage before dropping to his knees and prying up the loose floorboard under his bed. From the small hollow underneath he removed his father's old invisibility cloak, the Marauder's Map, a few letters from Ginny which he'd saved, a small bag of gold and finally, the fake Horcrux he'd recovered from the cave with Dumbledore. He pocketed the gold and placed the rest in his trunk before he closed it. He took his broomstick from it's place on top of the cupboard and made sure his wand was safely stashed in the waistband of his jeans. Gathering up Hedwig's cage, the broomstick under his arm, he grasped the handle of the trunk and stomped out of his bedroom for the last time.

Trying to balance everything in his arms he navigated his way down the stairs. As he reached the bottom, he heard the sound of raised voices coming from the kitchen. It sounded like Dudley had tagged in for round two and was having his own screaming match with his parents. The voices stopped by the time Harry reached the bottom though. They must have heard his trunk banging down the stairs. Harry didn't even break stride. He crossed to the front door, where he had to lower the trunk, placing Hedwig on top of it, so that he could open the door.

"Wait!"

Harry turned, preparing himself for another burst of anger. But it never came. Instead, he could only sigh as he looked at Dudley, standing in the hallway. Harry could see Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia behind Dudley. Both looked pale and shocked. Whatever Dudley had said to them – it must have had an effect.

"You leaving?" asked Dudley.

"Obviously."

"But why? I thought… I thought you were going to wait."

"I can't," said Harry, shaking his head, "I just can't wait anymore. It's over. I've got to go."

"But… where?" said Dudley.

"London, probably. I know some people who live there. I can get a room."

"How are you going to get there? Through another chimney?"

"No. I think I'll just catch the bus."

An odd, strangely sad silence fell between them. Both Harry and Dudley suddenly took an enormous interest in the grain patterns of the hardwood floor. Harry found that he actually had a lot of things he wanted to say to Dudley, although each sentiment sounded more ludicrous than the last. Finally, it was Dudley who broke the silence.

"Are you…? Are you going to do that thing…? That I told you?"

"I don't know," said Harry, "I still have to figure that out."

Dudley nodded. He, too, looked as though he had more to say but, like Harry, he couldn't seem to form the words. Instead, he crossed the gap between them and, almost fearfully, held out his hand. Harry just stared at Dudley's hand for almost a minute. He couldn't quite believe that Dudley was doing this… that he was offering this gesture. Self-conscious now, Dudley seemed to reach the conclusion that Harry wasn't going to shake, so he started to lower it again. Before he could do that, though, Harry stuck out his own hand and grasped Dudley's in a firm, solid grip. They shook, staring into each other's eyes and really looking at each other for the very first time.

"Goodbye Harry," said Dudley, softly.

"Stay safe, Dud," said Harry.

Behind Dudley, Aunt Petunia looked like she was on the verge of collapse. Uncle Vernon was looking from Dudley to Harry with what Harry could only describe as a very Dobby-like look of wonder. Harry didn't bother saying goodbye to them. Hefting his trunk and Hedwig once more, he walked out of the door, down the path and out onto the street. He set off up Privet Drive, away from Number Four, and didn't look back.


End file.
